A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Slowly, painfully.

After the conclusion of the Kimono/Lawrence of Arabia stanza, on Tuesday, I lost my way completely in "Takaaki." For the next 48 hours I floated around in limbo with no ideas really, feeling very sad, frustrated, and depressed. I wish I could write on command, but sometimes the words are not there.

Today dawned a little brighter, and I think I have a decent enough stanza to tack on to the end. I actually have written two stanzas today, but I am a little uncertain about stanza number two, so I will not publish it here. I am going to sleep on it and see if it feels right in the morning.

As usual, today's contribution occurs at the end.

Part III

Since our worlds already were at war,Running really made no sense to me.I buzzed Takaaki gently—prepared forAnother argument—contingencyChrysanthemums and Dunkin’ DonutsMy auxiliaries. Although he wasBound to be annoyed that I was late,I hoped the Martians might consent to waitTwo hours and obliterate New YorkAgain, at ten-fifteen, since eight-fifteen—Our time—had passed. Martians can be keenOn sticking to their schedules. They workVery hard on planning their invasions,Sleepless, indefatigable. With patience,

I pressed his buzzer harder, wonderingWhat on Earth was taking him so longTo answer the door, mind wanderingBack toward the movies: what is wrongWith him? Mysterious music swelled somewhere;A whiff of singed meat hanging in the airCompelled reflection. Not quite panicking,I gave the buzzer a one minute ring,The tip of my thumb glowing bony white.Frustrated by my absence, had he goneOff to face the Martians all alone—Half-crazy—seeking a heat-ray to lightA final Marlboro? No. As it hap-Pend, I aroused Takaaki from a nap.

He blinked at me and my chrysanthemumsAs if presented a bouquet of frogsRetrieved from one those great pickle drumsFor sale in scientific catalogs:Every specimen in our collectionFormaldehyde free for your protection.The ads will grin with grisly emphasis.Takaaki offered me a ghostly kissWhich missed my lips entirely. “Mars sendsThese flowers—and regrets they look so sick.They did seem brighter in that black plasticBucket at the bodega. Cut the stemsAnd water them, they should perk up,” I said.“Chrysanthemums are given to the dead

By people in Japan,” Takaaki’sJaw yawned, unromantically, I thought.“Maybe these Martians are not Japanese.From me. Strawberry frosted donuts oughtTo be acceptable, more auspicious.”He made a fuss about how deliciousThese tasted when I brought a couple homeOne day. His favorites. Twelve StyrofoamRings, of no variety, or beauty,Now glistened in his bright blue contacts. “Same?”He blinked again, “Who buys all of sameDonuts? Who does that?” “It’s my dutyTo disappoint you every way I can,Takaaki. I am an American,

Remember,” I remarked, removingSaturated sneakers, lead pea-coat,Wet socks, wet pants, wet everything, includingA pair of foggy glasses. How remoteThe possibilities of peace between usSeemed—until the cold and clammy penisShyly shivering in my underwearPointed to towels appearing from nowhere:They had materialized on the tansuDirectly opposite the front door,While I was peeling off my t-shirt, orJeans. (Those Transporters can surprise you.)Then, from another room, a fantasticRobe folded in a wicker laundry basket

Arrived. “Please put this on. I will wash clothesTonight.” For once, I did what I was told.Resistance is futile, I suppose,Confronted by goose pimples and warm goldKimonos. I pulled down my briefsShedding any lingering beliefsIn Christian modesty in his front hall.I rolled a lot into that ruby ballOf underwear—my maraschino cherry.I used it to adorn the soggy pileOf garments which I had abandoned whileHe was off-stage being busy. Very.He held up that kimono, like a cross,His face invisible, his body lost

Behind the fabric. When I stepped inside,I felt less like Lord and SaviourThan the actor Peter O’Toole. I triedNot to become Lawrence of Arabia,In Japanese regalia, bowing low,Revolving, all humility, to showHow I was different from the generalWesterner—I was less Imperial—More liberal—more sympathetic. It’sRather disorienting to step in-Side strange clothing, like another’s skin,And find you are identical. “It fits.It’s silk.” “Yours,” he smiled, “Polyester.I got it on eBay for cold weather.”

Silk, or polyester, the materialFrom which love is spun is always fine;He might have made a bowl of cereal,As long as it was warm, I didn’t mind.The gesture was pure gold—witty, dry,Typical Takaaki. Not the lie:The only lie in our relationshipI’m certain that he told outright—a tipI learned from a Korean cleaner whenI took Takaaki’s gift into his shopTo see if there was any way a dropOf wine might be removed. How many yenMy kimono cost, he couldn’t guess,But silk is precious, so he’d do his best.